


oh i get by (with a little help)

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Mpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medication, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: When Foggy feels the first pangs of heat coming on—the restless, fidgety feeling that leaves him cranky and frustrated and exhausted for days—he high-tails it to the nearest Planned Parenthood and gets himself an emergency prescription of suppressants. The on-call doctor walks him through what to expect and all the possible side effects he might experience and tells him, in a curt, no-nonsense manner what symptoms he should definitely drop everything and haul ass to the ER for. He gets sent home with a shit-ton of pamphlets and a tiny, inconspicuous box of generic drugs meant to keep him from going out of his mind with the biological urge to procreate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to fanlore.org for helping me out when I didn't know what I was doing and to all the authors out there who write this particular trope far better. 
> 
> This is for the 'alpha/omega/beta dynamics' square on my bingo card.

Foggy decides to take the suppressants because there isn’t time _not_ to.

They only just got hired on as interns and the office is a shark tank, full of sharp-toothed hopefuls just as green as them looking to make names for themselves in the shiny portion of the legal profession. Time off isn’t an option.

So when Foggy feels the first pangs of heat coming on—the restless, fidgety feeling that leaves him cranky and frustrated and exhausted for days—he high-tails it to the nearest Planned Parenthood and gets himself an emergency prescription of suppressants. The on-call doctor walks him through what to expect and all the possible side effects he might experience and tells him, in a curt, no-nonsense manner what symptoms he should definitely drop everything and haul ass to the ER for. He gets sent home with a shit-ton of pamphlets and a tiny, inconspicuous box of generic drugs meant to keep him from going out of his mind with the biological urge to procreate. 

He counts out the pills the doctor gives him, takes the first one just like she said he should, and the next, and the next, and it isn’t so bad. He has a few weird dreams and zero appetite, but there’s plenty of that going on in the omega forums he cruises from time to time telling him it’s normal. Just his body making a few adjustments from it thought was about to go down.

He’s on the second day of what should be his full heat when things get out of hand.

He wakes up and takes the day’s pill, feels queasy and feverish in a way that feels more like a bad cold than a heat for all that it prickles low in his gut. He jumps in the shower in the hopes of clearing his head a little before heading to work, palms his dick experimentally just to see what happens. Nothing much, but the itch beneath his skin deepens, spreads down his legs and up his back. Foggy blasts the water on cold and shivers his way through the rest of his morning routine. 

He goes to work and is positive he gets a few odd looks from might-be alphas on the elevator up, nothing suggestive or even borderline seductive, more like maybe Foggy forgot to put on deodorant and then decided to jog to work. 

He doesn’t know if he smells differently, he might, has enough memories of grade school health class to remember that heat-scenting is a thing. Fucking hormones he thinks, pushing his way off the elevator and sequestering himself in the broom closet currently acting as the office he shares with Matt. 

It’s thankfully empty when he gets there, which he was sort of counting on. Matt’s out most of the week and this morning’s no different. It’s cool, probably, that Matt got tagged to sit in on an endlessly series of meetings. Foggy hasn’t been able to get much out of him but he overheard Toolbag Jefferson talking about how the firm is going to fleece a guy dumb enough to try and sue one of their clients. That’s probably what’s got Matt all frowny-faced and furrow-browed about this week in the brief glimpses of him Foggy’s been able to catch. (He hasn’t a hundred-percent intentionally been avoiding Matt this week or anything, but their schedules haven’t really been in sync despite working in the same building, nay, the same square foot, and maybe Foggy hasn’t exactly been trying to remedy that the way he might other times. For reasons that don’t have anything to do with the fact that Matt’s an alpha. Definitely not.)

Foggy exhales hard, sucks in a deep breath through his teeth and almost groans when the air hits his tongue. God has everything in here always smelled so much of Matt? He gets a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he refuses to label yearning, though it feels identical to when he’s starving and knows exactly what he needs to satisfy the craving. 

There’s a headache blooming between his eyes and he rubs at his face, hard, tells himself to get a grip. “Head in the game man.” Foggy whispers, pushing off the door and finally making his way to his desk. He’s got work to do. He keeps feeling pretty shitty for most of the morning, that slow-burn exhaustion still hanging heavy in his body, his head throbbing. Warmth pulses low in his belly, an extension of what he felt leading up to this, achy and persistent. Nothing’s going to come from it, but it's still there a biological urge he can try to curtail but not remove. “I hate you.” Foggy tells his body, running a hand through his hair, flipping open the folder on his desk to get to work.

He’s sweating his way through his ill-fitting suit jacket when Matt finally shows, looking as frowny-faced and troubled as he’s been looking all week. He walks through the door with an exasperated sigh that gets cut short by a strangled questioning sound. The office door is barely closed behind him but Matt’s eyebrows are already hiking their way towards his hairline, face going the color of a persimmon as he stands stone-still against the door.

“Uh.” Matt’s mouth opens and closes a few times; he smooths a hand down the length of his tie, draws in quick breath and seems less steady for it. “Foggy?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Red alert Will Robinson. 

“I—“ Foggy’s whole body feels like it’s on fire and not in a sexy please-screw-me kind of way either. But in a please-let-the-earth-swallow-me-whole kind of way. “Hey.” He tries, his heart going so fast he feel lightheaded.

Matt shakes his head like a wet dog. “Sorry, um, sorry.” He gestures at the wide expanse of the office like he owes the whole room an apology. Foggy wants to beat his head against his desk until he can take refuge in unconsciousness. “So--uh, funny story--um, did I mention I’m technically--sorta--” In heat. The words stick in his throat. He feels like he’s setting omegas back at least a hundred years with how badly his face is burning. Jesus. He’s not ashamed or anything. Sure there are dickheads aplenty in the world who think omegas are less than human for what they can’t control but Matt isn’t one of them. “I probably should have told you I was going to--I’m on the pill so I’m not going to like try and use my wiles on you or anything. Your virtue is safe from me Matthew, I promise.” Foggy tries to laugh but it feels like he’s choking so he just drops it. Matt’s still standing at the door, apparently trying to breath.

“Is it bad?” Foggy asks because he trusts Matt to be honest, “I’m gotten a few looks from people today. Like I’m garbage day and a train car all in one.” He sniffs his collar. He gets nothing but old spray starch. The doctor said the suppressant would change his internal chemistry, change the scent he put out into the world so as to not attract every single alpha on Manhattan. Matt doesn’t exactly look like he wants to hurl.

Matt’s breathes out hard, shakes his head again. “No.” The red in his face intensifies. “Not remotely.”

Foggy blushes harder and this time it’s hard to say if he wants to be erased from the face of the earth or not. This is hardly his first heat since meeting Matt but he realizes now, this is definitely the first time he’s ever actually been _around_ Matt right in the middle of it. At school there was the clinic and groups dedicated to helping omegas find partners and school policies that promised extensions in the event of heat-related disruptions. At school Foggy had been able to remove himself from his real life for the few days required and reappear when it was all over, refreshed and fucked and at one with the universe. 

(Somewhere in his head there’s a tiny but persistent voice saying that there’s an alpha right here, _right here_ , and gee Louise, isn’t that a happy coincidence. Foggy needs it to stop.)

“Fuck.” He raps his knuckles against his desk, rattles the line of colorful dinosaurs balanced on the partition between their desks. “I—sorry man—”

“What?” Matt asks, finally taking a step closer. “No I’m sorry—I’m— _sorry_ —it just, caught me off guard that’s all. I’m sorry.”

Foggy watches Matt shrug and visibly force the tension out of his shoulders before he takes a step, and then another, until he’s pulling his desk chair out and taking a seat. Foggy stares at the divide as though he might be able to see right through it and catch a glimpse of Matt, but all he can really catch is the determined clip of Matt’s fingers over the tricked-out accessible keyboard L&Z provided for him.

They work in a carefully constructed silence for what feels like hours, Foggy’s spine slowly but steadily wilting under his skin as time goes by. By two o’clock he’s head is pounding and even the extra-strength Tylenol he threw back earlier isn’t doing much to keep him together. He’s been staring at the same PDF for the last twenty minutes but he can’t make out a word of it, can’t focus on anything but the heat trapped just beneath the surface of his skin, the buzzing like a cheap bug zapper trapped inside his skull. Next time he’s saying fuck it and just calling in sick. He can call the ACLU or Legal Aid or something if they try firing him over a biological tick he has absolutely no goddamn control over.

“Foggy?”

Foggy doesn’t know when he put his head down on the cool particleboard surface of his desk, he just knows that now that it's down he’ll never be able to pick it up again. He’s going to live here for the rest of his life. He hopes Matt will bring him bagels. He makes an incoherent sound that Matt seems to understand as I have surrendered to this uncaring universe because he comes around to Foggy’s side of the office, stands off at the edges of Foggy’s periphery vision. He doesn’t trust his neck to actually support his head right now, so he lets it sort of just tip over to the side, cheek pressed hard against the tabletop. Matt’s standing there, one hand just barely resting on the edge of Foggy’s desk. The frowny-face is back in place, but there’s still color blotchy in Matt’s skin and disappearing into the crisply-folded collar of his dress shirt. If anything, the white fabric makes the red look a hundred percent more intense.

Foggy stares at Matt’s mouth for longer than he’s proud of, but it’s a sore kind of longing, buried under the feeling of general badness that’s been growing inside him all day. 

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Matt says, completely taking Foggy by surprise. Matt taps his fingertips against the edge of the desk. It isn’t remotely a command, but it zings something in Foggy’s head, makes that dull ache inside him grow even as it gives him the strength to pick his head up. About an inch. It feels monumental. 

“We’ve got like—” he doesn’t bother looking at his watch. “a hundred more hours of work.”

Matt’s mouth hardens with determination, “Fuck it.” He says and if Foggy felt less like he was apart to shuffle off this mortal coil he’d clutch at his imaginary pearls. “You’re going home.”

-

It’s depressing how happy Foggy is to finally be home again. The train ride over narrowly avoided becoming a fiasco, with Matt practically baring his teeth at anyone who so much as breathed in their direction. It wasn’t dissimilar to how he got one Halloween night during their second year in law school when someone had made the mistake of making a derogatory comment about Foggy (see: dickheads, of which college campuses are full of), except this time instead of being drunk and carefree, Foggy’s tired and uncomfortable and trying to rein Matt in with the hand that wasn’t gripping the rail for dear life. 

Foggy lets his whole body sag under the crushing relief he feels as soon as Matt’s got the door closed and it’s just the two of them. Matt seems to relax too, his shoulders dropping from around his ears. “Alright there?” Foggy asks, and Matt’s mouth twists, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Foggy shrugs, “I think we both already know that answer.”

He peels off his rumpled jacket, loosens his tie and drops both on the back of his secondhand couch. He doesn’t bother with the buttons of his dress shirt, goes to pull the whole thing up over his head and gets stuck in a tangle of fabric. The lazy work twice as hard, says his mother’s voice in his head. Foggy can’t win today.

He must sound truly pathetic, struggling against the hold of the shirt, because then Matt’s there, hands firm and steadying at Foggy’s sides until he stops fidgeting. He sort of feels like crying, swallows hard to dislodge the lump in his throat when Matt peels the shirt down his torso. He doesn’t stop there though. Matt’s fingers are nimble; quickly flicks the buttons loose until he can push the material off Foggy’s shoulders. Foggy is literally speechless. Matt gives him a small, self-conscious smile like he’s the one standing in the living room in his undershirt and unfastened slacks being undressed by his flustered looking best friend.

Foggy clears his throat. _Matt is an alpha_ runs through his brain on repeat, and even if Foggy isn’t overcome by the physical need to have Matt’s children, there’s something to this, the firm grip of Matt’s fingers at his shoulder as he squeezes reassuringly before stepping away, the solid line of his back when he discards his own jacket. Foggy blinks a few times, tries to get a hold of himself while Matt continues his retreat into the kitchen. Foggy stands immobile for a long minute, listens to Matt move around, opening cabinets and clinking glassware. He comes back with a glass of orange juice which he offers to Foggy with a steady hand.

And there’s the lump back in full force, stuck painfully inside his throat as a single thought fills his mind: _Matt will take care of him._

He takes too long to accept the glass, and there’s Matt’s frown, too often seen as far as Foggy’s concerned. He flinches when Foggy’s fingers brush against his as he wraps his fingers around the smooth cool sides of the glass, condensation beading under Foggy’s fingertips. Foggy wants to apologize again but knows it would just make Matt’s frown worsen, so he settles for sipping his orange juice. 

“I’m gonna change.” He says unnecessarily, skin warm and longing coating the back of his tongue. It’s low-burning, an annoying distraction Foggy will not indulge as he carries himself to the corner of the room that acts as his bedroom. He picks up this morning’s discarded sweats, even considers going into the bathroom to change but he’s never exactly been shy around Matt, there’s never been a point. He hesitates for half a second before he makes up his mind. He kicks his shoes under the bed with twin thumps. The zipper seems to echo inside his shoebox studio, the fabric rustles as he pushes it down his thighs.

He catches sight of the pamphlets sticking out from beneath the curling front cover of the book resting on his nightstand. There isn’t anything in any of them that tells Foggy about imprinting on the nearest alpha who just happens to be your best friend or low-key seduction techniques. Suppressants don’t erase a heat, he reminds himself, balling up the sweatpants in his hands, that’s not how it works. They also don’t magic interest into existence. 

Any omega forced to sit through a semester of health ed in high school knows what to expect from a heat cycle. The need to mate, to procreate, to fulfill a biological purpose. The drugs blunt the worse of it, but what remains is a need to not be alone.

And he isn’t.

Matt is still hovering somewhere behind the couch when Foggy pivots, standing in his undershirt and underwear. “You can say no.” He says, cringing a little at how badly he doesn’t want Matt to say no, “But do you think--if you’re okay, could you, come over here. By the bed.” He clarifies.

Matt doesn’t need to be asked twice, comes over to Foggy’s side with almost comical speed. Foggy’s just glad he remembered not to drop his shit all over the floor when he started undressing. 

Foggy doesn’t know how many omegas Matt’s been with, and definitely doesn’t know if he’s ever been with one during a heat or how much he actually has to explain. Elektra had been a hundred percent fire-forged alpha through and through. Oh. Foggy shakes his head. The last thing he wants to think about right now is that particular mystery.

“Um, do you think you could stay?” Foggy asks, twisting his hands in the clothes clutched between them. “For a while? Do you think you could stay with me?” 

He can see Matt’s adam’s apple bob when he swallows. His mouth twists, pink and still too serious for anyone’s good. Matt nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

And he does.

-

Foggy doesn’t really sleep. He lies down and at some point Matt sits down next to him. They talk, about the meetings Matt’s been sitting in on and the briefs Foggy has waiting for him on his desk and what the chances are of either or both of them getting fired for leaving early. Matt get’s righteously indignant on Foggy’s behalf at the idea that anyone should say anything about him not being able to control his heat, and Foggy half-smiles at the sheer fondness he feels watching Matt’s face as he rants. 

Foggy dozes, somewhere fuzzy and too-warm, feels like he can’t get enough air, resurfaces at the pressure of Matt’s hand on his back, rubbing reassuringly. It feels nicer than anything ever has before. It’s still light out but Foggy doesn’t feel like moving, curls into himself because he can’t let himself curl into Matt, that would be, just, really not smart, tries not to squirm on the mattress at the needy twist tightening inside him. 

“Fog.” Matt says after a while, palm still resting against Foggy’s shoulder blade. “Can I hold you?” He sounds--well, he sounds as pained as Foggy feels and he really should have thought about what this is doing to Matt, being around Foggy with his hormones blaring out a hundred different signals. God, he didn’t even ask, didn’t even _think_ \--

But instead of asking now all he can do is nod into his pillow and say, “Yeah--please.” so that Matt’s sliding down, chest pressing against Foggy’s back and knees fitting against the back of Foggy’s legs, ankles knocking together. Matt’s arm is careful but still heavy where it falls around Foggy’s waist, anchoring him to the bed. And to Matt.

Warm. Matt is so warm. Even if Foggy feels seconds from spontaneous combustion, he could never in a million years give up how warm Matt is right now, folding his body around Foggy’s. 

“Thanks buddy.” Foggy breathes, lets his eyes close and tries to force himself to settle inside his own skin. Matt’s forehead comes to rest on the back of Foggy’s neck. The skin to skin contact burns. Foggy closes his hand around Matt’s wrist where it rests on his stomach, squeezes harder than he means to but Matt doesn’t complain.

“Any time.” Matt whispers. Foggy’s laugh cracks against the backs of his teeth. 

-

He wakes up--really actually wakes up--again and the room’s gone a cloudy blue as the sun descends, early evening wearing on. Foggy isn’t sure what woke him up at first, but it comes back to him with all the gentleness of a freight train. 

“Christ.” He wheezes, grinding against the mattress. He’s trapped on his stomach under the deadweight of Matt’s arm stretched across his back, hips rolling as he chases his dream, the phantom feeling of fullness that’s still lingering inside his body. His skin feels like it’s shrunk at least two sizes while he slept, prickles all over with pins and needles. Matt grunts in his ear, crowds closer. “Matt.” Foggy breathes, trying to get some distance. He needs to...something. Get up probably. Take another cold shower. Maybe call a doctor. Heat symptoms may occur, the box warned but this is officially ridiculous. He’s dry humping his bed with Matt snoring besides him and Foggy isn’t even really hard he’s just desperate. 

“Matty, I need to--”

Matt’s breathing shifts and his grip tightens momentarily before he seems fully awake. “Foggy?” He doesn’t let go of him but his arm relaxes its hold, lets Foggy roll on his side. His heart’s racing inside his chest and his mouth is dry and he feels, he feels--

“Matt. This fucking sucks so much.” He says, words low and rushed together, grips a fistful of Matt’s wrinkled dress shirt and hides his face against Matt’s chest because it's the least worst thing he can allow himself. 

“I’m sorry.” Matt says, voice rough and fierce, palm heavy and firm on Foggy’s back, a blazing heat through the thin material of Foggy’s undershirt. “I’m sorry Fog. I wish I could help.”

“Yeah me too buddy.” Foggy chokes, trying to take a steadying breath, loosen his grip on Matt’s shirt and ease out of his hold. _‘Slow down cowboy, one step at a time.’_ He manages to take a deep breath, inhales the wonderful scent of Matt in all his incredible alpha glory. _‘That was not helpful.’_ “I…”Matt starts, nose brushing Foggy’s temple. His fingers curl a little into the fabric at Foggy’s back. “I could help--” he says softly, hesitantly, like he’s not sure he wants Foggy to hear him.

Foggy does pull back at that. 

“You _are_ helping.” Foggy says slowly, wanting to reassure, and that’s only partially the omega side of his brain taking charge. Matt frowns, knee knocking into Foggy’s as he shifts on the mattress, eyes unfocused and dark. “I’m--you’re here.” Foggy says, gives up his hold on Matt’s shirt and lets his hand fall on the sheets between them. “You don’t need to have pity sex with me or anything.” He tries to joke, forces a grin Matt can’t see, “That’s like, above and beyond any kind of bro code, I’m pretty sure.” Matt’s mouth twitches, barely a smile, and his hand comes to a rest on Foggy’s neck, his thumb brushing against a spot just below Foggy’s ear. It makes it sort of hard to breathe. 

“You know it isn’t like that.” Matt says, the determination in his face at odds with the gentleness of his touch. “You know--”

“I don’t.” Foggy cuts him off, because that’s true. They’ve only ever been friends. Okay, friends with weird, some might say nonexistent, boundaries but that’s the sort of friendship that works for them. They live in one another’s pockets and Foggy’s sister has been making the same dumb partners-in-law joke for years and sometimes when they drink together they forget what an appropriate amount of touching is. But still. Friends.

Asking Matt to stay felt like an extension of that, having Matt hold him while he felt as though he was coming apart inside his skin, that’s something they can brush off and probably never talk about again. Friends hold friends. That’s just fact.

But what Matt’s offering now that isn’t something friends do to help one another out in a jam. Matt’s thumb stops moving. “I want to make you feel better.” He says earnestly, and Foggy remembers why he loves this stupid asshole, as a friend, as a person. As everything he is. 

“Listen pal, I know there’s some funky chemistry playing out between us right now but this isn’t even a real heat. I’m not--your healing dick is not necessary.” 

Matt actually laughs at that, and it’s almost too dark now to make out his face but Foggy still catches the glint of his teeth in the little light that’s left. “Foggy, no, this isn’t the heat talking. Believe me when I say that, please.” 

Foggy doesn’t know what to say. “What, this is just the world’s most convenient coincidence?”

Matt hums. “Okay, it’s a little bit about the heat. But I promise. It isn’t--I’ve thought about it before. Haven’t you?”

An embarrassing amount, but Foggy’s not about to admit that. He’s got a forest fire blazing inside him and it’s taking him twice as long as he’d like to put his thoughts in order. He rolls away, stares up at his ceiling and the shadows cast by the shifting light sliding through his blinds. 

He feels colder without Matt’s skin on his, but the fuzzy caterpillar feeling doesn’t stop pressing up under his skin. Matt doesn’t follow his retreat, keeps to his side of the bed. He’s still fully dressed, in his slacks and dress shirt, his dark socks stark shadows on Foggy’s sheets. “I’m going to shower.” Foggy says slowly, sitting up. Matt doesn’t mimic his move. He’s quiet while Foggy gets out of bed, rolls on his back while Foggy’s digging clothes out of his drawers. “You want me to be here when you get out?” He asks, voice carefully neutral. Foggy bites his lip. 

He thinks of his empty bed and the long night ahead. Shakes his head and then remembers to tell Matt he’s doing it. 

“Is that okay? Even if we don’t--”

Matt’s voice reaches him in the near dark. “Fog. Yeah. Whatever you need. I’m here.”

Foggy nods,keeps that one to himself. “Okay, okay.” 

-

By the time he’s out of the bathroom Matt’s off the bed and back in Foggy’s kitchen. One of the burners is on, the sole source of light in the room beside the occasional electronic. “Hey.” Matt says when Foggy flicks on a light. Foggy smiles, watches Matt throw instant ramen noodles into a pot with some leftover take out soy sauce and a little of the chili paste from the Thai place that makes Matt go red. “See you’re taking the wining and dining route now.” He says, and Matt smiles, and everything feels so completely normal, like this is any other night back at school. 

“You really think about it? About us, like that? Before all this?” Foggy asks, leaning against the narrow counter in his kitchen and Matt doesn’t stop what he’s doing, just says, “Yeah.” He shrugs, as close to uneasy as Foggy’s seen him since this whole ordeal started back in their office. “I mean, you’re awesome and--and I--I mean, I care about you, which I really hope isn’t a surprise--and you’re attractive--”

“Objection.” Foggy huffs, crossing his arms, “You don’t even know if that’s true.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s always saying I have a gift remember?”

“Are you admitting to knowingly picking up hotties?”

Matt waves a hand in the air, “We’re getting off point.” 

“I don’t think we are.” Foggy counters, running a hand through his damp hair. It’s still there, the desire for contact, for closeness, for Matt.

“You’re funny and smart and kind and you’ve never made me feel like I wasn’t--”

Foggy scowls, arms tightening defensively, “That’s because you aren’t--” 

Matt shrugs like he’s not lugging around his own matching set of baggage, about the blind thing, and the orphan thing, and the blind-orphan-alpha thing. He was made to take care of people. Save the world. And he will, Foggy doesn’t doubt it for a second. The world just needs to get its ableist, outdated head out of its ass first. 

“And yes, my feelings for you do not always align with the strictly platonic.” Matt finishes, steam turning his face pink. Or maybe it’s all the emotional conversations they’ve been having today. “But there’s always been other factors to consider and other relationships and it’s never been--I could smell you.” He says, shoulders tensing. Foggy thinks he feels his heart stall inside his chest. “I could smell your heat coming on and I thought you were going to leave but you didn’t. You kept coming to work and I--I’ve been working out of one of the conference rooms for the last few days because I thought--I didn’t want to say anything because I knew that if I did you’d think it was just hormones talking but it was so strong today Foggy I--I couldn’t.” The noodles are probably mush by now judging by how aggressively Matt’s stirring. “I’m not trying to get you in bed or claim you or anything like that. I just--want to make it better.” 

Foggy lets his arms drop. “C’mere Matty.” He says, quiet and careful, and Matt turns the burner to low, reaches out and finds Foggy’s arm, closes the distance between them.

“I’m gonna kiss you.” Foggy says and Matt nods, a little downward tilt of his chin into Foggy’s palm when he reaches up to take Matt’s face in hand. Matt’s mouth is soft and warm as the rest of him, and Foggy’s blood sings inside his veins, rushes to the surface of his skin and makes everything a hundred times more--everything. 

Matt sighs into the kiss and Foggy breathes him in, holds him close, gives himself up to the strength in Matt’s arms when he wraps them around Foggy’s waist. 

Matt kisses him and it isn't the omega in Foggy's brain that lights up like the skyline on the Fourth of July. It would be easy to say that's all it is, body chemistry aligning perfectly. But it’s never been the omega part of his brain that laughs at Matt’s terrible jokes or that ruffles his hair when he’s too serious. It isn’t his genetic material that makes him worry when Matt doesn’t sleep or teases and cajoles until Matt’s brow loosens into something lighter. The omega in him wants everything the alpha in Matt can offer him, protection and strength and guidance, but it’s Foggy that loves him, that kisses Matt back with years of longing caught on his lips, hands cradling Matt’s face carefully, trying to hold on to him so that when this heat passes he’ll stay right where he is.

“Fog,” Matt sighs, disbelief thick in his voice, beautiful red mouth shiny with spit, “I--”

“How hungry are you?” Foggy asks, breathing harder than a single kiss should warrant. 

Matt shakes his head, pushes in closer so that Foggy’s back collides with the counter behind him. “Foggy--I meant it. We don’t--whatever you need.” 

Foggy closes his eyes, brings his forehead to rest against Matt’s, his skin feels as fever warmed as Foggy’s. He breathes out a shaky exhale. “You.” He says, one hand sliding over the back of Matt’s neck. “I need you.”

Matt tries to nod, mostly just grinds their foreheads together. “You’ve got me.” He says, hands gripping the back of Foggy’s sweatshirt. “I’m yours.” 

_Mine_ , Foggy thinks, intoxicated by the very idea. _Mine, mine, mine._

-

They go back to bed.

He doesn’t know if Matt pushes at Foggy or if Foggy pulls him in, drags him over so that Matt’s body is covering Foggy’s, pushing him down into the mattress. Foggy makes room for him between his legs, thighs cradling Matt’s narrow hips, arms locking around him. “Foggy, Foggy.” Matt hides his face in Foggy’s neck, the tip of his nose rubbing against the side of Foggy’s throat.

“What do you want?” Foggy asks, voice shaking, his racing heart pounding in every single cell in his body. _You can have anything. Everything._ Matt could ask for his bleeding heart on a platter and Foggy would gladly hand it over with a bow on top.

Matt sighs against his skin, makes Foggy shiver. He tips his head to the side and presents his throat for the taking. “I want to make you feel good.” Matt says again, sounds a little lost, overwhelmed maybe now that they’re allowed to have this. It makes Foggy come back to himself a fragment, strokes a hand down Matt’s back, once, twice, over the length of Matt’s spine in reassurance. Matt shudders when Foggy’s fingers slip under the waistband of his slacks, drags his shirt the rest of the way free. The skin at the small of Matt’s back is searing under Foggy’s palm. Foggy groans. “You’re doing great work Matthew. Believe it. Achieve it.”

Matt laughs against Foggy’s shoulder, rubs his face against the fabric, makes a short sad noise when Foggy takes his face in his shaking hands and pulls him up. He relaxes when he figures out Foggy’s asking for another kiss, surges forward and slides their mouths together, kisses Foggy hard until they’re both panting. “You aren’t wet.” Matt says dumbly, and Foggy can’t tell if he’s actually turning redder, just knows the temperature in his body climbs another hundred degrees under his skin. He wants to ask how Matt can possibly know, if his sense of smell is really that much more sharpened in response to the heat Foggy’s body is trying so hard to tap into.

“Drugs.” He says breathlessly, face so hot it must sting Matt’s skin when he presses his cheek to Foggy’s, “God--I didn’t want to deal with the mess.” Life is messy enough as it is without the addition of self-generated lubricant ruining Foggy’s second hand professional attire. 

Matt grunts, kisses Foggy again. “But you are—” He rubs against Foggy’s thickening erection, makes Foggy moan and grind upward.

“Yeah,” Foggy breathes, reluctantly squeezes his eyes shut when looking at Matt gets too much, “Yeah, Matty, yeah.”

“I’m gonna make you feel good.” Matt says, and that is a hundred and ten percent Murdock-bullheadedness right there, promise and conviction and ruthlessness shining in Matt’s features as he hovers in place over Foggy. 

Foggy pressed up to kisses him, licks into Matt’s mouth, feels a deep seated sense of gratification when Matt moans into the kiss. “You do.” Foggy says, running his fingers through Matt’s sweat-damp hair, “You are.”

Matt pulls away again, kisses Foggy’s chin, his jaw, sucks a bruising kiss to the side of Foggy’s neck that makes him tingle all over. He inhales deeply, mouth gentle against Foggy’s skin before he squirms down Foggy’s body, shoves at Foggy’s sweatshirt until it's wedged under his armpits and Matt can kiss Foggy’s belly, bite at the thin skin next to his navel. “Matt, Matt—” Foggy runs right past moaning and arrives directly in babbling territory, and that’s definitely the lovestruck co-ed in him who can’t believe this is even happening. He whispers Matt’s name as he pulls Foggy’s sweats and underwear down his legs, bites his lip to keep down the embarrassing noise that jumps to his tongue when Matt runs his palms over Foggy’s hips, down his thighs to his knees, over and over again until his skin feels electric.

Foggy goes fully hard in Matt’s mouth, surrounded by the suctioning heat, the tiny flicks of Matt’s tongue under the head of his dick when he pulls up. He thinks he could come from the sight of Matt’s dark head between his splayed thighs, the nagging idea of want that Foggy’s been carrying with him all day finally thrown into complete clarity.

Matt sucks him, slowly, unrushed, cups Foggy’s hips and holds him in place, head bobbing up and down, blows him with an endearing kind of precision that has Foggy squirming against the mattress, hips flexing back before pushing forward. The tension builds in his body, pools in his thighs and his gut and collects in his balls. He clenches around nothing, writhes uselessly against the bedding chasing a spark that seems perpetually out of reach. The omega in his brain whines, frustrated and so very horny, but there’s something out of sync, something that isn’t connecting with everything going on right now. Matt’s mouth is incredible, Matt is incredible, the smell coming off his skin heady and sharp, makes the omega impatient that Foggy’s not already on his belly offering himself up for the taking, but Foggy’s body is strung tight with tension and desire, caught on the maddening edge of wanting to come and not being able to. He gulps a deep breath and tries to calm the panicked desperation he can feel gathering inside. If he starts crying during his very first blowjob from Matt he’ll never recover. He’ll have to abandon his life in New York and enter witness protection or something.

“Matty,” Foggy gasps, reaching down and sliding his fingers into Matt’s hair. “Matty, stop I--” He tries to reason with himself. He took the suppressants, it’s not either of their fault of the drugs did their job. Neither of them were exactly planning for this. And if Matt’s being honest with him, it’s not like they have to wait for Foggy’s next heat to hit to have sex. Even if Foggy’s body refuses to cooperate, he can still be here with Matt, can make Matt feel good until they can try again. 

Matt lifts his red face reluctantly, leaves Foggy’s dick spit-slick and hard. His brow furrows and he presses his face against Foggy’s hip, still panting. “Are you--?” Foggy scratches his fingers through Matt’s hair. As frustrated as he is he, he still likes the feel of it against his fingers. “I’m okay Matty.” He murmurs, ready to haul Matt back up, kiss him silly and get him off and maybe nap until Foggy feels less like he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin. “I’m just--I don’t think it’s gonna happen tonight. Don’t want you to waste your efforts. Which are admirable, truly.”

“Can I--?” Matt says, kisses the pale inside of Foggy’s thigh, “Please. Just a little longer. You can. I know you can. Please.” There’s so much longing in that single word that Foggy can’t find it in him to say no. He doesn’t want to say no. He wants--God he wants Matt to want him, wants to be a good omega for his alpha and let him have whatever he wants. And if right now that means letting him blow him fruitlessly, well, Foggy can hold on a little while longer. He tightens his fingers in Matt’s hair. Pulls a little and draws a sharp groan from Matt’s lips. “Okay.” He whispers, and Matt hums appreciatively before he sucks the head of Foggy’s dick into his mouth. He swallows the rest of it so fast Foggy’s afraid he’ll choke, but he doesn’t, lips stretched obscenely even before Matt slides a finger into his mouth alongside Foggy’s erection. Foggy jumps at the first wet touch of Matt’s fingertip between his legs. Slowly, slowly, tracing over him like they have all the time in the world, featherlight passes and firmer strokes that don’t go anywhere but in slow circles, round and round, driving Foggy crazy until until he thinks he’ll have to beg Matt to touch him, just—

“Matt.” Foggy breathes, sensitive and sick of waiting, sigh of relief turning into a sob when Matt finally pushes his finger in to the first knuckle. It isn’t enough but it’s all Foggy gets until Matt pulls off again, sucks three fingers into his mouth and then works two into Foggy, gently. It seems to go on like that for hours, Foggy twisting on the stretch of Matt’s fingers and thrusting shallowly into his hot wet mouth. There’s no missing the moment Matt’s fingers start gliding more smoothly, the slick warmth he can feel easing the way for Matt’s fingers as he stretches them wider, curls them to rub for firmly when Foggy jumps, until Foggy feels like there isn’t room inside him for anything but the ever mounting heat. It isn’t quick, isn’t the lightning-flash pleasure he remembers feeling when he went through his heat with Marci. When he finally comes his body clenches down hard on Matt’s fingers, his orgasm a long down out pulse that strikes him deep, leaves him aching in an entirely different way from before. He sobs Matt’s name, fingers tightening in Matt’s sweat-damp hair as Matt swallows around him.

He loses track of time, floats somewhere quiet and far away only to be drawn back by Matt’s voice, his lips pressing against Foggy’s stomach, his fingers stroking over his hip. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Matt keeps saying, and “I’m right here.” until Foggy realizes he’s still saying Matt’s name like a plea. Matt crawls back up his body, settles over him—hairy and warm and all Foggy’s—lies there, pressing kisses to Foggy’s throat and the underside of his jaw until Foggy feels closer to human.

“Matty.” Foggy breathes, kissing Matt’s ear, tilting his face until he can kiss him on his swollen lips. Matt’s still wearing his pants, a wet spot spreading out where they brush against Foggy, Matt smiles sheepishly at the inquisitive brush of Foggy’s fingers over the softening bulge they cover. “Sorry,” Matt says like he has anything to apologize for. “That was--more intense than I imagined.”

Foggy laughs, wraps Matt up in a full body hug, sticky with sweat but loose-limbed and happy. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in days, maybe not since before he realized he had a heat coming. Matt turns his face into Foggy’s throat and Foggy inhales shakily at the light touch of Matt’s teeth against the skin. Matt doesn’t bite down, shift so that his head is resting on Foggy’s collarbone, ear pressed to Foggy’s chest. It’s nice. “Hey Matty?” Foggy breathes, feels the vibrations of Matt’s breath when he ‘hmms’ in response. “When do I get you naked?”

Matt laughs, boyish and bright, presses a smile into Foggy’s skin that Foggy thinks he’ll feel for days.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the majority of this on heavily medicated on cold medication. That isn't an excuse necessarily, but it might have been what made me brave enough to try it. Because let me tell you when I got my bingo card and saw this square I was like, well can't do that one. I've read a few a/o/b stories in my time but it's never really been my jam. Still, this was an interesting writing experience. Glad I did it. 
> 
> Title from "With a Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles. 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](the-space-narwhal.tumblr.com)!


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